


Denial, or How to Not Pine When Adam Lambert Doesn't Call

by GlitterAndDoom



Series: The Unbreakable and Damned (For Love or the Greater Good) [2]
Category: Adam Lambert (Musician)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-03-28
Updated: 2011-03-28
Packaged: 2017-10-17 08:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 639
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/174730
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitterAndDoom/pseuds/GlitterAndDoom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Samuel didn't do pining, and, apparently, telephones didn't do ringing. - After "Good Causes (and Other Such Things)," Adam's bathroom liaison waits for him to call. And waits.  And waits.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Denial, or How to Not Pine When Adam Lambert Doesn't Call

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings:** OMC-POV, sequel  
>  **Summary:** Samuel didn't do _pining_ , and, apparently, telephones didn't do _ringing_.  
>  **Author's Notes:** Ever since I started my sequel ~~o'DOOM~~ to "Good Causes (and Other Such Things)," I've been having trouble getting into Samuel's head. @moosatcows suggested that I try writing something about him without Adam, and I ended up writing this short little thing exploring how he felt after Adam didn't call him back.
> 
> This is totally not my usual writing style. Also, it would be best to read [Good Causes (and Other Such Things)](http://archiveofourown.org/works/146634) before reading this, if you haven't already.  
>  **Disclaimer:** I own only Samuel, and this stuff is all lies.

He didn't do  _pining_ , and he was not waiting for his phone to ring. Not at all.

Sure, he didn't usually jump straight for rimming when the guy he was with didn't even know his last name, for God's sake (Doyle, for the record. Samuel Percival Doyle, and, oh, Christ, part of his brain had  _not_  been trying to see how that would look alongside Adam Mitchel Lambert). But, then, men in dresses had never been his thing, either, and neither had pop music...

...Somehow, he found himself humming along with that insipid "Whataya Want From Me?" the other morning (do _not_  get him started on the ghastly spelling of "whataya"), and, later, outright  _singing_  with "Soaked."  _Singing_. He hadn't sang like that in years.

His neighbor had probably nearly had a coronary, bless her heart, the poor woman, but she covered it nicely, telling him, "You have a really lovely voice. Was that that Lambert fellow? You two should sing together."

When he  _immediately_  remembered what they  _had_  done together, he didn't choke and blush as bright red as her hat, because blushing was another thing Samuel Percival Doyle  ~~future husband of Adam Mitchel Lambert...for fuck's sake, he was _not_  a teenage girl, and his mind really needed to stop joking about it~~ did not do.

And, apparently, ringing was something telephones did not do.

Oh, he had his fair share of calls, from bosses and from well-meaning friends who thought he didn't get out often enough (he wasn't  _antisocial_ , just  _particular_ , and, no, him being gay did  _not_  mean that gay bars were his cup of tea, and that did  _not_  make him self-loathing, Jacob), and from his sister, Eileen, who thought, "You're still not in prison yet?" was still funny after the twenty billionth time.

It wasn't.

No calls from Adam Lambert. No friend requests from Adam's secret Facebook account that no one was supposed to know about (Samuel still felt dirty for asking those people online about it). No communication. No acknowledgment. Nothing.

And he didn't know why. Had he not been nice enough? Had he not been impressive enough? Was "type"  _really_  that important to a  ~~shallow, tacky~~  pop star who, admittedly, had a lovely body and an amazing voice? Yes, preparing for a tour took time, but surely, a celebrity could make some extra, couldn't he?

Every time he  ~~didn't wonder~~  wondered, he scolded himself again. Just because  _he_  would've called someone who'd tongue-fucked him in a dingy lavatory didn't mean Adam Lambert would. Just because  _he_  kept his promises didn't mean Adam Lambert did.

They weren't  _lovers_ , for God's sake.

"I can't stop  _thinking_  about him," he grumbled, after he finally agreed to go out with his stupid friend Jacob just to shut him up. The liquor he downed didn't help, just reminded him of the alcohol he'd tasted on Adam's lips that night. Later on, when his tongue and his brain were loosened too much by the whiskey, he added, "I just wish he'd call me. I quite liked that gorgeous bastard."

"Must have," Jacob said, "since you can't stop pining over ' _that gorgeous bastard_.'"

"I don't _do_ pining." He really didn't, because no matter how spectacular the arse was, no matter how beautiful the legs were, no matter how nice Samuel Percival Doyle and Adam Mitchel Lambert looked alongside each other in harsh fluorescent light and scrawled across snow white paper, few things were as annoying as pining.

But even he couldn't pretend he didn't hurt.

"Oh, God." He groaned. "I _am_ pining. What the hell do I do now?"

"You drink," Jacob said, filling his glass once again, "and then you forget him."

Easier said than done. Samuel didn't do pining, but he had never met any gorgeous bastards who seemed to be worth pining over.

Until now.


End file.
